The Problem With Tight Biker Leather, and Other Sordid Stories
by cassowary
Summary: What could have been. What should have been. Madness, cataclysmic events, and irreverent fun! Journey with Eragon and friends as they trash the land of Alagasdkfhskffsia in a series of wild one-shots! Rated T for Troll.
1. An Explosive Beginning

I. An Explosive Beginning

Wind whipped through the underbrush, carrying a scent of rotten meat.

Eragon wrinkled his nose, but then formed a grin on his snide, fifteen-year-old face. Like most fifteen-year-old boys of near-human intelligence and sociopathic tendencies, he realized that he could save a lot of time and effort collecting carrion for his family (or better yet, for Sloan the Butcher) to eat and/or _butch_(?) as opposed to the original mission of actually _hunting_.

The one thing this particular youthful protagonist did not realize was that if he brought home carrion, carrion would be his meals as well, but that is neither here nor there.

Because as he approached a stinking, rotten corpse of what had once been the smallest, sickliest deer in the herd, half-eaten and writhing with maggots already, an explosion ripped the forest.

Eragon happened to be a most fortunate fifteen-year-old boy of near-human intelligence and sociopathic tendencies, because although he was well within 300 meters of the center of the blast, this was a magical explosion and there was neither primary nor secondary fragmentation.

But of course, he did not happen to know those basic safety guidelines. He never learned from his mistake.

Because although the first blast was magical, the "blue stone" that had appeared in the epicenter, at ground zero, was a cleverly disguised and very powerful mechanical-time explosive device.

A bright flash and loud _boom_ from the general direction of the Spine awoke the citizens of Carvahall, who panicked in the streets. Garrow and Roran built a bomb shelter, although they of course did not know what a bomb was. Brom capitalized on the cataclysmic explosion by leading the weak-minded in sacrifices of chickens, cows, and money in order to "appease the Gods." Horst and his family bypassed the rescue of their souls by drowning themselves in spirits at Morn's abandoned tavern.

In Uru'baen, Galbatorix cackled on his throne and cradled a blue dragon egg in his arms, pleased with his clever adaptation of what had previously been a Surdan state secret. And when the Ra'zac informed him that a puny town with no economic benefit, far in the North of the Empire, was rioting and panicking, he took the opportunity assign a certain newly-commissioned young cavalry officer to lead a detachment in order to put down the revolts.

Murtagh quickly found that deployments were not nearly as exciting as he had hoped, and that he hated the cold up North. His soldiers alternated between making crude types of sculptures in the snow (which none of the men from the Capital had seen before), and complaining about the discomfort and terrible weather. Granted, that after some of them had managed to build a bonfire despite his express orders for noise and light discipline, he had made his entire company stand at parade rest in the snow for two and a half hours as he yelled at them, but _honestly_…

With the small, slaughtered town of Carvahall bleeding red rivulets of its citizens into the pristine snow at their backs, the cavalry officer and his troops marched themselves back South, a bit sickened by the scene they left behind for the glory of the Empire, and eager to return to the warmth of their home.

Murtagh could not stop seeing the old man he had killed personally; who had looked up at him, met his eyes, and _recognized _him. His beautiful grey warhorse was tired, and the hard journey, cold weather, and slaughter of civilians had shaken him.

Tornac would understand.

Nobody ever found Eragon, or the shrapnel from the fake egg. There is a reason the Spine is dangerous.

The blue dragon became frustrated at playing solitaire in her egg, and was just thinking of hatching for the sole purpose of asking her current keeper to get her an IPad already, so that she could keep up with her buddies' Instagrams while she waited for her Rider.

In the military prison in Gil'ead, Arya was none the wiser.

**Author's Note:** So, Geez, the ending got a lot more serious than I would have hoped. Sorry!

I just have a lot of time to kill, and a lot of Nerd Rage, and a somewhat twisted mind. Tell me what you think; there's more irreverent fun to come!


	2. Biker Leather & Dead Babies

II. Oh, S***!: Biker Leather and Dead Babies

When Eragon finally stopped thinking, big, disgusting, leering Urgals in disturbingly skimpy pseudo-biker-leather outfits had surrounded him, armed with large heavy objects, and larger, heavier, harder objects.

So, Eragon reacted like anyone else would, who has just entered a slaughtered village, waxed poetic at the sight of a dead baby, puked a little bit, and is now surrounded by the _very _suspect-looking instigators of such wholesale violence.

He tried to fit an arrow to his string, but remembered that his bow was not strung. So, he held up his arms in the universal sign for "time out," to which the Urgals complied, as they were all huge fake-wrestling fans.

It took him a couple tries, but eventually, he managed to string his bow. Then, Our Hero proceeded to _knock_ the arrow in his hand to the taut bowstring, which really didn't make much sound.

But as the Urgals, deciding they gave this idiot enough time, began to advance, Eragon got _serious_. He _nocked_ his arrow to the bowstring, and prepared to fire as the Urgals were just in his face.

And a leering Urgal in a bizarre skimpy biker-leather outfit, right up in your grills, is a very distressing thing indeed.

So again, Eragon only reacted as any other person in his particular situation would, and swore.

"SHIT!" He screamed, releasing an arrow point-blank into his enemy's chest.

The Urgals crackled with brown energy.

For a second, the world was still.

A crow cawed, and then fixated on its dead baby feast once again.

The most awful smell, even worse than human blood and corpses, permeated the area.

It was worse than an open city sewage.

It was worse than a compost heap.

The Urgal Hordes shifted uncomfortably, grunting.

Feeling extremely drained, Eragon swayed and passed out.

When he woke up, he gagged. Brom was kneeling over him, a corner of his cloak pulled over his nose.

"Wha? Where am I? What's that _revolting_ smell?" inquired the disoriented farmboy of his mentor.

With his free hand, Brom slapped him across the face.

"Ow! What was that for?"

The old man growled like a dragon.

"Happy now, Boy? You did magic. But you could have, say, set them all on fire rather than make them _shit_ themselves to death." He jerked his head over in the direction of piles and piles of horned heads, biker-leather-clad bodies, and brown matter that gave Eragon the (inappropriate) impression of icing on the most evil cake in the history of Alagalagsdlkjshdfhdiwesia.

"I killed them, though, didn't I?" said Eragon sulkily, "without _your_ help."

All the same, he accepted Brom's hand to pull him to his feet, although he let Brom do most of the work.

Not missing a beat, Brom strode gallantly onward.

"Hey, where are you going?" Eragon yelled, quite recovered and adjusted to the hellish stench.

"You better hurry up, Boy; we've got a long walk ahead of us. Saphira and the horses have been refusing to come within five miles of this shithole after your little trick."

Grumbling but not wanting to be left behind, Eragon ran and caught up with the old man.

"But why can't we call a _taxi_?"

"In case you didn't notice, the taxi driver was in that pile of corpses, Idiot."

"_Are we there, yet?"_

**Author's Note:** I hope you were not offended by any of the diction above. I had this somewhat childish but funny thought when I was flipping through the Blue Brick quite some months ago, but I haven't done anything with it until now.

And what the hell do Urgals wear, anyways? As always, drop a comment!


	3. Beam Me Up!

III. Beam Me Up!

Eragon woke up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy.

Considering the amount he drank the night before at the Elves' wild party of Ancient Roman proportions, this was quite shocking to him, or should have been. But he had not much experience with being blasted out of his mind at an Elven Saturnalia, and figured that somebody had been considerate enough to magick the hangover right out of him while he was still asleep. After all, they already brought him vegetarian omelettes whenever he pleased; cleaned his toenail clippings off of the expensive carpet in his custom treehouse; and did his filthy laundry every other week (it always came back a bit shrunken and markedly lavender-scented, for no apparent reason). So it only followed that his Elven Maid Service would come in and remove his hangover while he still slept.

_What a wonderful day it is, Saphira!_ He thought to his dragon, but he immediately broke contact with her to avoid the mind-splitting headache of a dragon-sized hangover.

"How funny," he mused, "That they would forget about my _dragon_."

Eragon pronounced the last word of that sentence with a repressed rage, at the failure of the Elven Maid Service to take proper care of his cool new ride. It would be to you or me as if a negligent chalet had decided to park your shiny new Bugatti in a bush. Mood darkened by this unfortunate occurrence, Our Hero stormed off in his vegan psychedelic paisley pajamas to the bathroom, where he shaved (with magic), utilized the facilities, and brushed his teeth with the bottle of Jack that had been left conveniently out on the polished marble top of the sink.

After his teeth were sufficiently cleaned and he stunk of alcohol worse than ever, Eragon decided to take a shower and wash out the vomit that seemed to have dried in his hair and on one side of his suddenly fabulous, dashing face.

Even though showers hadn't been invented yet.

Eragon snapped his fingers thrice, which was the signal for those grunts in the underbellies of Elven societies across all fantasy worlds; who are never mentioned but _always_ implied (who _else_ would clean Elven chamberpots of their sweet-smelling excrement; or dispose of the gracefully rotting Elven turnips and Elven cabbages that no sane person, including Elves, would _ever_ want to eat?)…but the author digresses. The lowly Garbage-Elves with their sharp Elven hearing immediately magicked bathwater into the bath, piping-hot for their new darling Dragon Rider.

For his nonexistent shower.

Nonetheless, Our Hero stripped out of his psychedelic paisley vegan pajamas very sexily and gasped at the sight that met him in the large, ornate, gold-framed, full-length mirror pasted with motivational stickers.

The first thing he noticed was that he had the body of a nonexistent god. He still had _some_ body hair, but nobody needed to know. But something happened to him last night, and Eragon, the borderline-sociopathic teenaged Dragon Rider of near-human intelligence could not get enough of himself. He looked _fine_.

His pecs rippled; his abs stood out; his biceps were at least twenty inches circumference; he was chiseled and maybe a bit sparkly. His tanned torso was solid like a mountain; below the belt was more like a _huge _carnival ground. Gone was that ugly scar that had plagued him so much…like, really? It didn't make him more interesting to Arya; and it made Vanir laugh at him: it only seemed to impress _Murtagh_, who was a lowly human who couldn't do magic or sparkle; had an ugly scar of his own; and was probably dead now…_whatever_. Instead of that, Eragon had acquired a cool tattoo on his shoulder that looked like one of those crop circles he used to find all the time back on the stupid human farm (because Elves were too awesome to farm). This excited him quite a bit, because now he would have ink like Arya, so they would have something to talk about, and maybe later, they could get matching tats; instead of having a stupid, tacky scar that matched lame, dead Murtagh.

_But how did that tattoo get there?_

Eragon could not remember anything from the night; just that it was a pretty sick party; but he also knew that waking up with no memory; bod mod; and a cool new tattoo could only mean one thing.

Wrapping a towel around his waist and leaving the now-lukewarm, untouched bathwater behind, Eragon fairly _jumped_ out of his tree and landed in a totally sweet dive roll, then sprinted at mach-speed to Oromis's hut.

As usual, Glaedr was curled up outside.

…_Live long and prosper_, the golden amputee dragon slurred, cracking open one unfocused eye for a second. Eragon dashed straight past him, kicked in his master's door, and interrupted Oromis in mid-scry.

"Eragon-_finariel_!" he exclaimed, looking both unenthusiastic and slightly embarrassed, as he threw a sheet over his mirror, from which emanated a _very_ suspect moan.

"What brings you here so early in the morning? Why couldn't you have knocked? And…" his voice trailed off, and his grey eyes narrowed, "why are you only wearing a _towel_?"

"Long story, Oromis-_sensei_," the Dragon Rider uttered loftily, "but I had a _eureka_ moment and could not keep my Very Important Discovery to myself."

Try as he might, the Elven Replacement Brom could not stop an indulgent smile from creeping up his face.

"Always a sharp mind, Eragon-_kun_," he breathed pleasantly and breathily. "I'm sure you have a Very, Very Important Discovery that will change the way Elven-kind sees the world."

And this would have not been _nearly _as frightening, had Oromis been speaking sarcastically. But spake he for the whole of the Elven race; and listened he to the words of the glorious towel-clad Eragon Shadeslayer.

"Verily, Oromis-_sensei_," groused he gravely, his bare shoulders shaking with poorly repressed glee.

"For I have discovered that I am the son of Morzan."

The ancient Elf stared flatly at his youthful protégée.

Eragon gave a gallant snort of laughter.

"Nay, fear not, good _sensei_. For I know firsthand that the seed of Morzan grows but runts; and a runt I am not. I discovered that I am the son of Brom."

This made the ancient Elf give a start.

"How—how did you know?" he questioned his brilliant student hoarsely.

But Eragon Shadeslayer and (future) Ladykiller returned to his instructor an incredulous look.

"Oh, come on, Oromis-_sensei_. I was just _joking_. My _real_ discovery is that much more interesting and _exciting_ than the sordid mysteries of my parentage and conception. You see—"

Here he paused for dramatic effect.

"You see this tattoo I got, right? And this wondrous transformation I had, changing from crippled, weak human to fabulous, sparkly, perfect Elf? Well, I remember that I used to see formations in the agricultural bounties of my pastoral childhood home that were shaped the same. The ignorant peasants of the region called them 'crop circles' and claimed that they were made by demons. But it all makes sense now; do you not see, _sensei_? They are among us; I am almost _positive _that my dear late father Brom was one himself—"

Oromis's misty eyes widened with the realization and he gave a great gasp.

"Yes! Yes, my student; it makes _perfect_ sense indeed!"

Smirking lazily and raising his hands in a grand, memetic gesture, Eragon finished.

"I'm not saying it was aliens…but it was aliens."

"We must tell the Queen at once!" ejaculated the old, wise Elf, and he sprung up to his feet and together they ran, gracefully as camels, all the way to Tialdari Hall.

And thus began the Space Age of Ellesmera as the Elves tried desperately to contact their sinless counterparts in the stars.

Eragon was hailed as the greatest (albeit _only_) half-human, half- Elf, half-alien thinker of his time; the spellcasters an alchemists of all of Elven civilization collaborated on possible methods to send Saphira up into space so that Eragon and his Big Blue Bus would not only be the first free Rider pair since the Fall; but they would also be the first pair _ever_ to make it into space. Great radio towers extended up from the leafy ceiling of the forest in attempts to transmit and pick up intergalactic signals. Droves of Elves drank poisoned Kool-Aid and died in order to free themselves from their "earthly vessels" and join their true peoples across the universe. Tunics emblazoned with slogans such as "Aliens built the Floating Crystal of Eoam" and images of certain tea set articles whizzing through an astronomical backdrop became vogue for younger Elves; fairths of Eragon saying his now-famous line were traded covetously; Elven musicians began to play slow, theatrical guitar-and-synthesizer music and wear bizarre, silvery outfits to their performances; adopting monikers such as "Ziggy Meteordust" and "Commander Yoda."

The Elven Space Age brought about a renaissance of sorts, where the whole of Elven society reveled and grew increasingly more desperate to find signs of life in outer space.

From his throne, Galbatorix watched in his special scrying mirror as the Elves exhausted all of their budget and all the gold they could have sung out of the ground trying to build increasingly unlikely-looking flying contraptions; all of their magic trying to levitate dogs and monkeys and humans high enough into the air to see if their wards would protect them from burning in the atmosphere.

Galbatorix watched as the Elven youth, caught in the excitement of their new findings; revolted and overthrew the royal Elven family when the government could no longer support any of the mounting space missions; and the messianic figure of Shadeslayer and (the King almost burst a vein in his forehead at the sheer _stupidity_) the female dragon rose up to take control of the Elven Capital with promises of lands and riches in space for all the Elves of Du Weldenvarden, as they and the Golden Rider led the charge to Infinity And Beyond.

Being improperly warded due to the gross expense of magic in the entire region, both dragon and rider pairs burned like grease balls once they hit the atmosphere, and Elven society collapsed soon after.

A certain young red dragon wondered if _he_ would grow up to be that stupid, someday; and although his current lifestyle led him to a sort of a detachment when it came to the lives of others, he _did_ feel somewhat sad when he realized that his race was now officially doomed.

A certain red dragon's conceited Rider surmised with much hubris that perhaps losing him: a great, loyal, supportive friend, must have driven poor Eragon round the twist at last. He sighed sadly to himself and his beloved dragon, because this was what happened when he wasn't around to stop his little brother from doing stupid things.

And bringing triumph from the tragic death of the last female dragon in existence, Murtagh and Thorn arrived at their workplace early the next morning, only to find a pink slip on their desk.

And, in typical Galbatorix fashion: a large sticky note on the coffee machine reading in childish capitals the words _YOU'RE FIRED_.

The end of the year found the Illustrious King firmly in control of all Alagaesia and the remains of Du Weldenvarden; a leaderless Varden ; Roran, who took up professional Urgal Wrestling as an underground career; Arya, who had been exiled from Ellesmera and decided to become a kung fu master high in the mountains of the Spine; and Nasuada, who found herself mysteriously (but not at all unpleasantly) kidnapped by a rather dashing masked man riding a very adorable red dragon _en route_ to freedom and that tour of Iceland they had always dreamed of.

None of the parties mentioned ever paused to truly _see_ that flying saucer that appeared in the wintery skies on December 21, 2012…

**Author's Note:** the cassowary will take full legal responsibility for any references to Buzz Lightyear; Star Trek; Star Wars; David Bowie; Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen; outdated apocalypse theories; Giorgio Tsoukalos and Ancient Aliens; sparkly Twilight vampires; Icelandic tourism; Donald Trump and Gilderoy Lockhart's evil twisted baby otherwise known as Galbatorix; much-abused Japanese honorifics; NASA and the Space Race; Bugattis; Jack Daniels; social upheaval the 1960s and 1970s; Roman orgies; crop circles; Archimedes; P. Diddy; Jim Jones and his "special" Kool-Aid; and last but not least, Ke$ha.

Inheritance Cycle? Don't come crying to me, PaoPao. That's out of my control.


End file.
